Point Spread

    The skull in the box is that of Cornelius A. Burleigh, the first man to be hanged in London, Ontario, August 19, 1830. The public hanging attracted an audience of over 3,000 when the village of London numbered only a few hundred. Because the rope broke, he was hanged twice! The top of the skull was taken on a world tour by Dr. O.S. Fowler, a phrenologist.
    This part of the skull was presented to the Harris family.
    (Eldon House brochure)

    Off memory
    & a dare,
    the grave man
    coming to a bitter end.
    Burleigh, top of his
    skull reminiscent of a laundry cup
    (or toothpaste cap) separated from
    its yellowing, rightful owner.
    No jaws of life here -
    rather vengeance beyond death,
    shellac & varnish twist shoved
    to the withering bone.

    Phrenology,
    sinister "fin de siecle" fingering
    of the intellect's character
    through guru-dimensions of the head,
    (pseudo-savant/skulduggery clairvoyant).

    Thimble-full thinker, sleight of hand
    smoke'n mirror trophy hunters
    boisterous crowd in a
    "hanging mood". Coins
    flip on the outcome
    while town drunks reel;

    The village idiot getting
    into the "swing" of things. Point spread
    across the yawn
    of death ...
    brittle behaviour,
    the sharp edge of beetles
    clicking in the dark.

    And I thought
    of institutionalized evil
    & rabid passion for revenge
    pursued beyond the final resting place -
    most private skeletal remains
    held up as curios. Medieval burning of a heretic's bones,
    manure pile for those decried damned;
    the cross-roads
    drive your cart over the
    bones of the dead,
    the remembered suicide's end.

    Not so strange
    given human nature,
    Lord Byron's silver drinking cup
    runaway Ethiopian slave
    (twisted paean to romance)
    or Hand of Glory,
    corpse-fresh from the gibbet &
    famed forges of France.
    Hair strands as in under
    a magnifying glass, then
    shards of clothing/clods of earth
    covering a shovel.

    The autopsy-necromancy
    Nazi intrigue,
    playing polo with your
    opponent's skull
    - Carl Sagan's Broca's Brain
    red-bearded decapitation
    floating in a cloud of formaldehyde;
    sale of skeletons/white slavery
    filthy lucre all in one utilitarian
    lust for cadavers ... .

    Robber-birds pinioning their prey ...
    Mania to collect
    mania to re-collect,
    shadow-boxing logic
    rattle his bones
    he's only a pauper
    whom nobody owns.

Paul Cameron Brown

Paul Cameron Brown is a Canadian poet known for his extensive work in both poetry and art criticism. Born in western Canada, Brown has had a prolific career in writing, often intertwining themes of human experience and nature. His works have been showcased in various literary magazines and anthologies. With a style that is both reflective and evocative, he has gained recognition not only in Canada but also internationally.

Paul Cameron Brown

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Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

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Braggadocio

Chess playing Death
-    no, the reverse
Death sitting decked out and self-satisfied
in black no mandatory top hat but a shroud
shouldering a cowl.

There stereotypes end    -
appearances have to be kept up
tho' hardly any cinematic gnarled fingers
of Baron Samedi fame
rather pudgy digitals reflecting
gentile prosperity
(after all, Winners do take all
his fellow satanists bank on it).

Of course, such things are fictitious.
Death plays no favourites (and waits
for no man when rivalling Time).
Still, parlour games are one indulgence.
Hardly comforting to know human beings
function at one purpose
when this Hallow of Hallows puts on the smirk.

Dalliance with the victim is the upshot    -
the chess motif again.
Sift th...

Paul Cameron Brown

Old Brompton Road

    1

    "Death is but a sleep"
    quaint rationalization
    even to Revolutionaries.
    Think of Robespierre
    holding his bleeding jaw
    or Marat outside -
    eyeing the inscription,
    scofula no longer distracting while
    tepidly emptying bath water.

    2
    Dreams, poetry of painting,
    deathly pastel shades alongside
    granite canyons
    entwined with rosebuds and leaves -
    bone horseshoes clanking in the dark.

    3
    Catch basin, drainage ditch
    upon which the raspberry
    parts its tendrils and
    human remains, the loathing
    of the living ("not dead yet...."
    ...appropriate obscenity:)
    scrawled on one Victorian
    mortuary, windows knocked out,
    ...

Paul Cameron Brown

At The Red Throat

    In youth, Death was
    a puny boy possessing but
    wormy hands & fleshless fingers
    as in Witch Hazel
    or Scrooge's Future Ghost
    - that insipid Evil One
    Hansel so easily outwitted
    in a gingerbread house.

    Time brought increased notoriety.
    Saucy times with a soupçon of respect
    for the artful dodger.
    Givens change, an armful of
    orange lilies, limp & loathsome,
    on a tombstone door
    before trumpets of rain.

    Graven images. Lifeless stone.
    Death became stone.
    Stone empty. The maggot emptiness
    burrowing into chiselled easel and
    the stone-cutter's savage magic.
    Just a bitty stone
    to herald a passing.

    Night-jars.
    Old straw-...

Paul Cameron Brown

Terminal Living

    "Everybody in the world is frightened of getting cut."
    Charles Manson

    I
    The image complete
    - collapsing corpses, rag dolls
    with skulls shot away ...
    ruby-red blood spurting
    slipstick/eyeshadow/mascara
    all so reptilian replete.

    II
    The long fingers of the pianist
    playing rifle fire to a
    captive audience,
    stiletto tones;
    the trance effect,
    precedes a cobra's strike,
    summer without smoke.

    III
    A glass of absinthe
    - the Degas painting,
    Marc Lepine measuring out his vial,
    measuring the worth of a single
    woman and finding her long on the call,
    cartridge shells exploding
    filaments of smoke
    (long and blue)...

Paul Cameron Brown

Unpaginated

    Orchestrating violins thru whisky sky
    clouds slide like billiard balls
    a Jackie Gleason-Fats Domino
    ricochet off greener velvet;
    my pheasant escaping snow.

    Jack Ketch the hangman
    in brilliant plumage,
    a touch of Borgia in
    long, murderous hands.

    The light of Capone in
    steeple-dark eyes
    running like a
    haunted ship
    around the white, facial disc.

    Offset. Bold type.
    I see you through pages
    of my history book
    only you're unpaginated.

    Unclench the fist,
    watch for effervescent islets,
    erotic mounds of Venus or
    protuberances called Marquesas
    off my left hand.

    Omens are the cloth
    of dreams, scissors

Paul Cameron Brown

Tussaud's

    In the wax museum with Attila and Genghis and Tamerlane all so
    close in spirit with our century.

    At Madame Tussaud's in London: Neill Cream. Burke and Hare. It's
    hard to keep the legitimate heroes straight from the villains. I expect
    Houdini to make this Niagara Falls and appear at midnight
    Halloween.

    With so many real and picturesque notables in abundance, I plan
    the idea of creating my own arch criminal wax museum assembled
    from the hallways and stairwells of my own life.

    I imagine employment counsellors from across the years with sardonic
    laughs and strings tripping off records to make them authentic.
    Then busts of fiendish ex-teachers and hatchet fanatics that
    pass as librarians giving me advanced nausea be...

Paul Cameron Brown